


nothing without love (I wanna rest in your light)

by orphan_account



Category: Smosh
Genre: Destiny, Getting Together, I Don't Even Know, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a paint can inopportunely falls on Ian's head in the middle of an argument with Anthony, Ian awakes to discover that he is in a universe where he and Anthony no longer speak to one another. A lady dressed in all white who calls herself Destiny shows up and tries to explain multiple universe theory to Ian, but really, he just wants to get back to his own world so he doesn't have to live in rural Oregon anymore. </p><p>(hopefully less ridiculous than it sounds)</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing without love (I wanna rest in your light)

**Author's Note:**

> -I'm back! Thanks to everyone who read high hopes :D hopefully you'll enjoy this one too! I'm kind of nervous about it because it's sort of weird and unconventional, but hopefully the plot makes sense *crosses fingers*  
> -This story was born out of a lot of different ideas-- I owe some of my inspiration to the Smosh episode of Rhett/Link's Ear Biscuits (if you've listened to it, you'll probably understand what I mean when you read). I think a lot of fandoms have a sort of alternate universe story like this, so here's my attempt-- Sandrene09 also has an amazingly beautiful fic called 'Kismet' with sort of the same idea of Destiny/Kismet personified as a character, so go read that if you haven't already! Because it's awesome :D  
> -Still don't own Smosh or know anything about Ian/Anthony's personal lives and feelings. Although Anthony's snapchats have been giving me life this past week #blessed

It starts with something small, as it always does.

Anthony steals the last three chips from Ian’s Chipotle bag, and Ian had been thinking of them the entire time he was eating his burrito. They had _not_ been up for grabs, no matter how abandoned they may have seemed.

“Dude, what the fuck?” He snaps, checking the empty bag morosely. At the bottom are only crumbs and the lingering promise of the three chips that would have perfectly finished his meal off. “You owe me Chipotle now.”

Really, it’s not something worth getting upset over—he and Anthony snag each other’s food all the time, but they’re on hour 10 of a 14-hour filming day at the Smosh Games headquarters, and yesterday had been just as long and he can’t remember the last time he spent more than eight consecutive hours _not_ in the presence of Anthony’s stupidly attractive face.

On top of all of that, the conference room that they are eating in is in the process of being painted, and the paint fumes are giving him a headache.

“I don’t owe you anything,” Anthony scoffs, showing no remorse for his thievery. He proudly crunches the last chip with a shark-like grin. “I cooked you dinner twice last week, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Yeah, as if Ian could forget how good Anthony had looked with his tall form bent over the stove; the way his eyes had crinkled happily when Ian complimented the results of his culinary labors, admitting that it _was_ pretty good—for tree-hugger food, anway.

“Well, I drive you _everywhere,_ ” Ian says, smugly pulling out his trump card. “I’ve driven in the past 30 Lunchtime episodes—you can ask the fans. I drove you here today, in _your_ car.” And really, he’s still trying to figure out how he’d been coaxed into that—he and Anthony had met up for a run this morning before filming, and after they’d showered and gotten ready to leave Anthony’s apartment, Anthony had turned on his most charming smile and said “Ian, you don’t mind driving, right? Because I need to comb my hair before it gets curly,” and Ian, like the idiot that he is, had been too captivated by the way Anthony’s dark, wet hair shone in the morning sunlight and curled against his forehead to say no.

“Because you _like_ driving,” Anthony shoots back, interrupting Ian’s bemused recollections. “You’ve voluntarily driven in all those Lunchtime episodes. It’s not my fault that you always volunteer—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t just always _assume_ that you know when I want to do things. Just because I volunteered to drive one time doesn’t mean I always want to drive. If you actually gave a damn about my opinions—” _if you actually gave a damn about **me** beyond friendship—_and suddenly this tiny argument over the last three chips has turned into something much larger.

Anthony’s eyebrows shoot up and his expression seems to say _you want to do this now? Okay, let’s do it._

“You’re the one who never fucking tells me what you’re thinking! Christ, Ian, sometimes I’m convinced that you secretly hate me and are just sticking around for the money!” Anthony exhales deeply and that last admission hangs heavily in the air between the two of them.

Ian knows this is his fault—you see, Ian doesn’t hate Anthony—in fact, he is decidedly on the _other_ side of the emotional spectrum where his regard for Anthony is concerned. But some days, hiding the weight of his feelings for Anthony is just _too much._ It hurts to constantly have to look but not touch, to feel but not express. And if it makes him a little distant and cold, so be it. It’s better than risking their friendship over Ian’s stupid emotions and the way he can’t get over how happy Anthony’s laugh makes him and the way his breath catches in his chest sometimes when their arms or knees brush.

“Anthony—I—” he stammers, not sure of what he is going to say. This is three years of tension shoved under the surface that is now beginning to push its way through the cracks of their friendship.

And _god,_ Ian can’t believe he’s been in love with this ridiculous bastard for three years now. It had happened the night that Anthony had come to him at the Smosh house and told him point-blank: “I think I’m going to move to L.A. to be with Kalel.” And Ian had taken one look at Anthony’s nervous, excited face, and all the strange feelings he’d been having for the previous few months had clicked into place.

It had come down to this: he was head over heels for his best friend, and that was why his chest clenched a little every time he saw Anthony’s hand intertwined with Kalel’s, or why his stomach felt hollow whenever he watched their lovey-dovey vlogs. It was _bad—_ the kind of love where you think, hey, yeah, I want to adopt a couple of kids with you and open a joint 401k and buy a house by the sea where we can grow old together.

But it had been too late. There had been a brief instant where he’d thought very seriously about confronting Anthony; of telling him the truth and seeing what happened. But then reality had come crashing back down around him: there was approximately a 100% chance that Anthony did _not_ return Ian’s feelings, and he wasn’t about to risk utter rejection and the possible ruin of a 10+ year friendship, especially when things between Kalel and Anthony were getting so serious.

So he’d looked Anthony in the eye, taken a deep breath, and calmly said “okay. We’ll make it work if you want to move to L.A.”

Because he is not brave. Because he has never _been_ brave. Because Anthony is like the sun, and Ian is afraid that he will be burned if he steps too close to the sun’s heat; that he will freeze and turn into a shell of himself if he steps too far away. It is safest to remain in the relative warmth and familiarity that they have carefully established as the status quo for their friendship over the past fifteen years, even though Ian will always crave more of Anthony’s light.

“Anthony,” he repeats again, forcing himself to return to the argument at hand. “I—”

But once again he is lost for words to describe his thoughts and feelings, because it is such a risk to make himself vulnerable in front of Anthony.

Anthony scoffs in disappointment. “See what I mean? You can’t even bring yourself to talk through a stupid argument over some chips.”

For a brief instant, Ian wishes he could go back in time; wishes that he could have picked that fight with Anthony three years ago just so he could have _known_ once and for all.

“Fuck you, Anthony,” Ian says harshly, jolting to his feet and jerkily pushing his chair in. “You don’t know _anything_ about what I’m thinking or feeling—”

 _Stupid, Ian. Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thinks. He should have just kept his head down and left the chips issue alone.

This is his last thought before he accidentally backs into the ladder that the painters had been using _._ Things seem to happen in slow motion—he feels the ladder wobble ominously behind him; he sees the panicked, warning expression spread across Anthony’s face. He feels, with alarming clarity, the smooth, heavy weight of the paint can falling from above and clipping him on the head.

And then everything goes black.

* * *

 

When Ian next awakens, the heavy paint smell is gone and he is lying on a surface that is decidedly _not_ the conference room floor. It’s definitely a bed, but it’s not the bed in his apartment.

It smells homey and familiar, but there is also a different feeling in the air; a sort of heavy humidity that he isn’t accustomed to living in L.A.

When he opens his eyes, he is startled to find that it is gray and rainy outside. It also appears to be morning, which…it had definitely been evening the last time he’d been conscious.

He is lying in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and his breathing begins to quicken as he blindly reaches around for his phone. The walls of this bedroom—he has decided it is a bedroom and not a hospital room or a torture chamber (hopefully)—are a soothing beige color, and the posters and artwork hanging up are all things that suit Ian’s taste almost exactly. He doesn’t recognize his surroundings, but maybe he is at the house of one of his Smosh Games coworkers?

Struggling to remember what might have happened to lead him here, he pushes himself to sit up. The ache in his head that he had been anticipating does not come, which is odd—he had _definitely_ been hit on the head pretty hard with a paint can just a little while ago. Scratching his forehead and stretching, he continues to survey his surroundings in a daze.

As he pushes back the blankets, his hand comes in contact with a phone—but not _his_ phone. Not exactly, anyway—it is the same model, but the utilitarian black case is a different make from his own phone case. Casting a quick look around to make sure he is alone in the bedroom, he wakes up the home screen and the familiar password keypad pops up. Giving a shrug, he tries his password—the date Smosh was formed—and he is startled when the phone actually unlocks.

Still not sure why he is a holding a phone that appears to be his while still not being _his,_ he decides to look out the bedroom window to get a better idea of where in the hell he is. He’s going to have to call Anthony to come get him—and he doesn’t know why Anthony isn’t here in the first place. Surely after seeing Ian be hit in the head with the paint can, Anthony would have sought medical help and _not_ abandoned him to the house of some random stranger, no matter how angry he was with Ian over their fight about the chips and Ian’s emotional unavailability.

Padding across the soft carpet, Ian makes his way over to the window. He almost drops the phone when he pulls the curtain back because _he is not in L.A._

The towering steel-gray mountains on the horizon instantly make that abundantly clear, as well as the lush green meadow that sprawls out from the foot of this house or building or whatever. To the left, there is a rich-looking forest, built out of skyscraper pine trees and leafy deciduous branches.

“Well, fuck,” Ian mutters, wondering if he has been kidnapped or something. It just doesn’t make sense—it’s not like he’s actually _worth_ anything on his own without Anthony and Smosh.

A brilliantly simple idea suddenly occurs to his overloaded brain—he can use the maps app on the phone to find out where he is! He quickly unlocks the phone again and pulls up the app, waiting for the wifi to load his location. It works surprisingly quickly for such a remote-seeming place—someone passionate about the internet must live in this house—and he actually _does_ drop the phone this time, because apparently he is in a small town in fucking _Oregon,_ of all places.

He wonders if this is a dream, but it doesn’t _feel_ like a dream. The draft coming from the window feels very real, as does the panic that is flooding his veins.

Grabbing a plastic lightsaber off of the bookshelf, Ian decides he needs to find out once and for all who else is in this house and why he is being kept here. In an ideal world, he’d have a better weapon. But also in an ideal world, he wouldn’t be here, so, yeah.

He tentatively creeps out of the bedroom and into the upstairs hallway. It is a tiny house—there is only one other door on this landing, and it leads to an old but functional-looking bathroom. He whips the shower curtain open with his lightsaber, but there is no murderer standing behind it.

Then he slowly takes the creaky wooden stairs down to the first floor, where he is greeted by the sight of…nobody. He is alone.

He walks through the whole house three times before he really trusts this conclusion, but it appears to be true. There is nobody here in this house but him.

He sinks onto the couch in bewilderment, wondering how he’s going to explain this to Anthony.

_“So I know we just had a fight, but I’m actually stranded in central Oregon, so if you wouldn’t mind coming to pick me up, that would be really great.”_

With slightly shaking fingers, he pulls Anthony’s name up in his contacts—and it’s weird that it’s listed in this phone as ‘Anthony Padilla’, because in his own phone there is only one Anthony that he talks to; only one Anthony in his life that really matters.

He presses the ‘call’ button and prays that Anthony actually answers the phone for once. This time of day, Anthony can generally be found chopping up absurd amounts of fresh produce to eat throughout the day like the giant fruit bat that he secretly is.

It rings for a long time, and Ian is just about to give up hope when a familiar voice answers.

“Hello?” Everything about that one world spells out uncertainty, and Ian doesn’t know why Anthony would sound so confused or startled by Ian calling him, but he doesn’t take the time to worry about the strange note to Anthony’s greeting. There are bigger things at hand.

“Anthony?” Ian says. “Look, this is weird and I know you’re probably still mad at me, but I just woke up in a house in Oregon and I’m kind of freaking out because I don’t remember how I got here and I feel like I’m in the plot of a horror movie a little bit right now, except the phone is actually working and that _never_ happens in horror movies so maybe I’ll be okay but you might kind of have to come pick me up?”

There is a long pause after this breathless rant, which, Ian supposes, makes sense, given that he’d rambled on at about 100 miles an hour.

“Uh…Ian?” Anthony’s voice still sounds deeply uncertain. “Are you sure you were trying to call me?”

“Yeah, I figure you’re my best bet for actually driving all the way to Oregon for me. You know, since you owe me a million rides and everything.” He tries to say it lightly, hoping a joke about their earlier fight will make up for some of the tension that is clearly crackling over the phone line.

“What are you—you know what, never mind. If you really need me to be there, Ian, I can be there,” Anthony says, and his tone of voice is still very strange and deliberate. “Oregon, huh?” He muses after a beat. “You don’t do things halfway, do you?”

“Apparently not,” Ian returns. He feels like they are on two completely different pages about _something,_ but he’s not sure what.

“Okay,” Anthony says calmly. “Okay. Why don’t you text me your address? Are you going to be okay while you’re waiting for me? Is there someone else you can call to stay with you in the meantime?”

“Um…no?” Ian says, bemused. “If there was someone else, I obviously wouldn’t be calling you. It’s not like I know anyone in Oregon.”

“Okay,” Anthony says, sounding like he is trying to talk a wild horse out of kicking him. “Just…just hang in there, alright?”

Ian harrumphs. “I’ll be fine. I’m not crazy, Anthony. I’m just confused.”

“Yeah,” Anthony says, and Ian can practically imagine him running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s confused. “Yeah, me too.”

* * *

 

While he waits for Anthony to make the 9 hour drive up to get him, things get decidedly weirder.

He takes the time to investigate the small house—for lack of anything better to do—and he begins to notice some anomalies. First of all, a lot of the stuff in this house is _his._ His coffee mugs from his apartment back in L.A., his old N64 system with the nick in it from the time Anthony had angrily flung the Paper Mario cartridge at the system box. The books on the shelves are ones that he had collected over the years, and some of the artwork is unmistakably Melanie’s old handiwork.

It’s an eerie feeling, and he’s not sure if he has some sort of mega-stalker who is waiting under the bed to cut him up and eat his body parts, or if he’s just trapped in a nightmare or something.

Eventually, however, the internet beckons to him, as it always does in times of great trial or boredom. The password on the laptop that he finds is the same password on his own laptop, and he just decides he is done being creeped out and doesn’t allow himself to freak out over it.

He pulls up the email on the laptop, surprised-but-not-really-surprised to find that it is his own gmail account. Strangely, however, there are very few emails in his inbox. Normally, the average daily flow of Smosh email keeps his unread messages healthily up in the thousands, but he only has two new emails: one from his mother, and another from someone named Jake Pearson. He opens his mom’s first.

                _Ian, honey, I know the past three years have been very hard on you, but I was hoping you’d consider coming home for Christmas this year. We all miss you and love you very much. –Mom_

He blinks in confusion—he has come home for Christmas every year of his life, and what does his mom mean about ‘the past three years’?

Shaking his head, he clicks on the other email, the one from the mysterious Jake.

                _I,_

_Just got the preliminary book reviews back from New York. Everything is looking excellent; they all loved the new book. Newberry Awards, here we come again!_

_-J_

_Jake Pearson_

_Editor_

_Eugene Publishing House_

_Eugene, Oregon_

“Uh…what?” he mumbles. He types ‘Jake Pearson Eugene Publishing House’ into the google search bar and clicks on the first link that pops up.

It’s an article about Jake, a good-looking guy in his early thirties, who appears to be the golden child of the Oregon editing world, and Ian doesn’t even want to know how sad and small of a playing field _that_ is. The article is about Jake’s work with a prodigious new author named…Ian Anderson…who had won the Newberry Award two years running for his series of kids’ chapter books about…

_Wait… **he** is Ian Anderson._

The series of books is about a boy named Dougie Guggelheimer, and Dougie, who is an ADHD-ridden nerd with no friends, is regularly stolen away by alien worlds to help save the galaxy. Only his best friend, Marco Fluffenschmidt, knows Dougie’s secret and sticks with him.

It had been Ian’s idea for a book series ever since he was twelve years old, and it was what he had always planned to write before Smosh came along and deflected him from that path. And now it’s all the same according to this article, down to the very penname he’d always planned to use.

Has he somehow been time-warped to the future? Had he hit his head and gotten amnesia and missed himself finally sitting down to write the series of books?

He checks the date and time three different times, but no—it is still 2015.

If he is somehow writing children’s books, what is going on with Smosh? He opens a new tab and types ‘Smosh’ into the search bar, instantly underwhelmed and alarmed by the results.

The only articles that pop up are from 2011 and 2012, and he refreshes the page a few times, desperate disbelief beginning to creep through his veins.

He googles his own twitter handle, smoshian, but nothing comes up. Next he searches for Anthony, but smoshanthony doesn’t pop up—instead, plain old ‘Anthony Padilla’ does, and this is all too fucking weird for him to handle.

He goes back and clicks on the most recent article about Smosh that he can find—one from early 2012—and reads the headline with a dawning sense of horror and a premonition of what he is about to discover already churning in his stomach.

                _Yes, It’s True: Everyone’s Favorite YouTube Duo Is Going Their Separate Ways_

Ian can hardly bear to read it, but he can’t _not_ read it either.

                _In a move that has stunned fan audiences and the internet alike, the comedy duo **Smosh** has made a sudden announcement that they will no longer be making videos. The statement was given by Anthony Padilla in a YouTube video yesterday, and was confirmed when the official Smosh twitter was deactivated this morning. Ian Hecox has not been seen or heard from since the announcement. Updates will be added to this article as they occur. _

But there had never been any other updates added; no additional information about what had caused them to separate or why Ian hadn’t given a statement.

He should take back what he had said to Anthony: clearly he _is_ going crazy.

“Why is this happening?” He mutters feverishly, tugging at his hair.

There is a sudden slamming of the front door of the drafty little house, and Ian’s meltdown is interrupted by the unexpected presence of a woman who is dressed in white from head-to-toe and standing in the doorway. She has white hair and the kind of face that is timeless—perhaps she is very old or very young, or somehow both at once. Her skin seems to glow slightly, although perhaps it is just a trick of the light—or a trick of Ian’s fucked-up mind.

“I think I’m hallucinating,” he murmurs faintly, trying to think of ways he could have unknowingly imbibed hallucinogens. Maybe he is in his bed in L.A.; maybe this is all a drug-induced stupor.

“Oh, cut the theatrics,” the lady says with a sort of world-weary drawl that doesn’t suit her ethereal appearance. “I figured I had better interfere before you lapsed completely into histrionics and made yourself faint, but I can see I may have been too late. Honestly, the weakness of the human spirit continues to confound me, even after all this time.”

“Sorry?” Ian says, his voice a little higher-pitched than normal as he tries to keep himself firmly away from falling into the ‘histrionics’ category. “I just…I’m in Oregon…apparently Anthony and I stopped doing Smosh 3 years ago and I’m a children’s book author…” He is aware that this woman probably has no clue what he is talking about but he can’t help the words from tumbling out.

The lady sighs and surveys the living room, turning up her nose slightly as she looks at the well-worn furniture. Eventually, she delicately removes an empty chip bag from a lounge chair and primly seats herself across from Ian.

“Well, if you’d stop panicking long enough, I could explain why I’m here and what you’re experiencing. Here, if you’re going to start hyperventilating, at least do it into this bag so you don’t pass out,” she says, exasperatedly handing him the Doritos bag.

Ian politely takes the bag, but he just clutches it in his numb fingers instead of breathing into it.

“You know why this is happening to me?” He asks hopefully.

The woman sighs. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you this entire time.”

She pauses here and he gets the feeling that he is supposed to be apologizing for being so slow-witted.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” he says, scratching his neck uncomfortably.

The woman rolls her eyes and tosses her white hair slightly. “Anyway, I’m Destiny.” She says it in a significant tone, as though Ian is supposed to be familiar with her. To be honest, Ian is a little behind on his pop culture knowledge—was that that girl group with Beyoncé in it?

“Nice to meet you,” he says with an awkward little wave. “I’m Ian.”

Destiny inhales very deeply through her nose. “I _know,_ you idiot. I know every single thing about you. I’m _Lady Destiny,_ controller of fate.”

“Oh,” Ian says slowly, because that is just what he needs in this situation; someone even crazier and _more_ deluded than him. “Okay, well, it was nice to meet you, but maybe I’m better off trying to figure this out on my own—”

Lady Destiny or whoever she is sighs. “You stole batteries from the hardware store one time when you were nine after your GameBoy died and you didn’t have allowance money to buy new ones. You cheated off of Sarah Hardman’s paper in 11th grade on the final exam in trigonometry. You’ve been in love with Anthony Padilla since 2012, and you secretly worry that he’s the funnier half of Smosh and that people like him more than you.”

“Wha—how did you know all of that?” Ian asks, open-mouthed.

Lady Destiny smiles, and it’s a little dangerous-looking. “I told you, Ian. I know everything about you. You wished to know what would have happened three years ago if you confronted Anthony about your feelings, did you not? And here I am now, to show you exactly what the outcome could have been if you had followed through and done so.”

Something about her voice makes him believe her. “So…so is this like an alternate universe type of situation?” He asks, still floored by disbelief.

“Yes, all humans have an infinite number of alternate universes based upon each small decision that they make. I’m here to show you two possible alternate universes,” Lady Destiny says, carefully inspecting her perfectly manicured nails.

“So…if this were to be true… _hypothetically_ …what _is_ this universe?” Ian asks, curious to know what circumstances could lead him to live a solitary life in mountains of Oregon.

“In this universe, when Anthony told you he wanted to move out to live with Kalel, you picked a fight with him over it instead of telling him you’d make it work,” Destiny explains.

“And it didn’t go well, I’m guessing,” Ian infers grimly.

“Correct. It was all your fault, really—this universe’s Anthony obviously wasn’t ready to hear it yet, but you just went ahead and told him about your feelings anyway. Well, actually, you didn’t _tell_ him—you just sort of shouted at him and gave him an ultimatum: choose you or choose Kalel. Very poor technique, if I do say so myself.” Destiny stands and begins absentmindedly straightening the bookshelf, because apparently fate is a neat freak.

“And now we don’t talk anymore and we don’t do Smosh and I just talked to Anthony on the phone for the first time in three years,” Ian says numbly, crumpling the chip bag and then obsessively attempting to straighten out its wrinkles.

“Correct again,” Destiny smiles over her shoulder as she alphabetizes his DVDs far faster than is humanly possible. “You moved away immediately after the fight and haven’t spoken to him since.”

“So…the moral of the story is that I made the right choice by not telling him three years ago?” Ian asks, hoping that if he follows Lady Destiny’s lead she’ll return him to his rightful universe.

Lady Destiny sighs as though he is beyond help and shakes her head wearily. “There isn’t a ‘moral of the story’ here. You wished to know about the possible outcomes of such a decision, and I’m here to show them to you. What you take away from them is up to you. I’m just here to do my job.”

“Okay…so how do I get out of this universe?” Ian asks. He’s already ready to go back—he seems like a miserable hermit in this world.

“Oh, you’ll know when the time is right,” Destiny says airily, handing him a white business card from the pocket of her white robe.

                _Lady Destiny_

_Controller of all fate_

_Solicitations welcome on Tuesdays only, please._

“Uh…thanks, I guess?” Ian says, pocketing the card.

“See you around, Ian,” Lady Destiny says with a cheery wave.

“Wait! You haven’t explained anything yet! How can I—”

But she is already gone, and Ian is left standing in the house of a very different Ian Hecox.

“Well, fuck,” he mumbles, collapsing back onto the sofa and fumbling around for the empty chip bag. Maybe he is going to hyperventilate after all.

* * *

 

It takes him about an hour to finally calm down and accept his circumstances, and frankly, he is proud of himself for keeping a level head. For the most part, anyway. Sure, Lady Destiny thinks he’s a dumbass, but at the end of the day, things could be worse, right? He could be stuck in an alternate universe where he’d decided to become a monk or god forbid, a _vegan_ or something, so all in all, he’s optimistic.

Until there is a knock at the front door, and he panics again. It’s not Anthony, unless Anthony broke about a million traffic laws and another million laws of physics to get here in less than two hours.

He silently prays that whoever it is will just give up and leave, but what he hadn’t accounted for was that this mystery person apparently is in possession of a key.

He is just trying to look casual reading on the couch when the door opens and a man steps inside with a confused grin.

“Oh, so you _are_ here. Why didn’t you let me in?” He has a good-natured, open face and it takes Ian a second to place why he looks familiar. _Jake Pearson—_ Other Ian’s editor.

“Hey, Jake,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Sorry, I’m not feeling too well today. Couldn’t force myself to get up.” He tries to look weak and ill, and honestly, it really isn’t difficult under the circumstances.

“That’s too bad,” Jake says earnestly as he hangs up his scarf and jacket like he has done it a million times before. He seems like the kind of guy who does everything earnestly. “Hopefully it’s just a little cold, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ian says awkwardly, wondering how casual his relationship with this guy is.

Apparently it’s pretty fucking casual, however, because Jake comes and lifts Ian’s feet and inserts himself under them at the other end of the couch, so that Ian’s legs rest in his lap.

“Lean in, then,” Jake says, motioning for Ian to lean closer.

Utterly baffled and more than slightly uncomfortable, Ian obliges. Jake’s cool fingers come to rest on Ian’s forehead.

“Hmm,” he says. “I don’t think you have a temperature, but you do seem a little flushed. You want some tea?”

“Sure,” Ian croaks, watching in amazement as Jake smiles affectionately at him and gently rises to go putter around the kitchen.

“Did you get my email, I?” Jake calls, and Ian winces. He has always hated when people tried to make a nickname out of ‘Ian’—after all, it’s only three letters and two syllables, there’s not much of a need for nicknaming.

“Yeah…good news about the book reviews,” he returns, trying to sound upbeat.

“I think you’ve got the Newberry in the bag again this year,” Jake says confidently, popping his head back into the room and winking at Ian.

And Ian suddenly has a really bad feeling about the nature of his relationship with Jake. The guy is definitely attractive and he seems really sweet and genuine, but…he is so clearly a replacement for Anthony: about the same height; the same hair color; the same easy smile. It is all a pale imitation of the relationship that Ian has always shared with Anthony; a relationship that the Ian of this universe no longer has.

His suspicions are confirmed when Jake returns with a steaming mug of tea. He places the cup on the side table next to Ian and leans down to kiss Ian on the cheek casually before settling back on the other end of the couch again.

“So what’s on your mind today? You seem a million miles away.”

 _No—only a couple of universes away, actually._ “Well…I’ve talked to you about Anthony before, right?”

Jake’s face goes still. “Yes,” he says cautiously. “You’ve mentioned him, but it’s always seemed like a topic that was completely off-limits. Why?”

“Well,” Ian says. “He’s coming up for a visit. I just…you know, I’ve been thinking about the way things ended with him, and I really think it would help me get closure and move on if I could talk to him again.”

“Oh,” Jake says quietly. “Well, it’s your decision, of course. I’ll support you no matter what, you know that. Do you think—do you think that…” Jake trails off, seeming to grapple with himself. “Do you think that once you get closure from him, you’ll be ready to reconsider my proposal?”

Ian’s heart clenches at the soft hope in Jake’s voice. _Damn, this universe sucks._ He wishes he knew what the other Ian would have done, because he doesn’t want to ruin it for his other self. Maybe he is meant to just capitulate and marry Jake. But maybe Destiny had brought him to this universe to fix things with Anthony so that this version of Ian and Anthony could be together. There’s no way to know.

“Yeah,” he returns quietly, looking away as Jake’s face instantly brightens into a megawatt smile. “Yeah, I think I’ll be ready then.”

“Take all the time you need, I,” Jake says fervently, looking as though he has just been handed the moon. It makes Ian’s chest ache a little bit. Why couldn’t Anthony be the one looking at him like that? “You know you can call me anytime if you need to talk afterwards, no matter how late it is.”

“Of course,” Ian agrees, accepting another kiss on the cheek, this one longer and more lingering, before Jake pulls away and stands.

“Don’t want to get myself sick,” he jokes, his step jaunty. “Good luck, honey.”

“Thanks,” Ian says hoarsely, waiting until Jake closes the front door behind him to slump back against the pillows of the couch.

* * *

 

It is almost midnight when Anthony finally shows up, and to be honest, Ian almost wants to cry with relief when he opens the door and sees Anthony standing there on his front porch.

But it quickly becomes clear from the shuttered, closed-off expression on Anthony’s face that this is not _his_ Anthony. No, this is an Anthony whose best friend had walked away from him three years ago without looking back. This is an Anthony who has been living with Kalel in L.A. for over three years now; an Anthony who has a cold, shiny wedding band on his left hand.

And just like that, all the wind is knocked out of his sails, because no matter what he does, it seems like he will never end up with Anthony in any universe.

“Anthony,” he smiles weakly. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, well, it sounded like an emergency,” Anthony says gruffly, shuffling his feet.

Ian winces, aware that this is going to sound bad. “Sorry about that…I’ve been under the weather and I just got confused—the fever, you know. But I’m okay now.”

Anthony sighs. “So I _didn’t_ have to drive all the way out here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ian says, scrunching his face in abject apology. “But I’m glad you did, because I wanted to talk to you. Look, about the way we left things…”

“ _We?_ ” Anthony exhales incredulously. “ _We_ didn’t leave anything a certain way, Ian. You walked away from me and never looked back. There was no _we_ in that decision—that was all you being a selfish bastard.”

“Anthony—”

“No—you don’t get to talk to me, Ian! It’s been three fucking years, and I didn’t even know where you were living this whole time. I had to fend off questions about you from our millions of fans, because I didn’t know the answer to any of them!” Anthony is shouting now, and Ian is glad that he has no neighbors. "And then you just expect me to drop everything and come out here to get you, because apparently I'm some kind of sick plaything to you?"

“I don’t expect you to ever forgive me,” Ian says, feeling like a hole has been torn in his chest. _This isn’t real, not real, not real,_ he chants in his head. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. That I still have feelings for you, and that I always will.”

“Fuck off, Ian,” Anthony swears, and Ian thinks he can see tears in those tired dark eyes. “You _destroyed_ me. But I’m married now, and Kalel is pregnant. I rebuilt my life after Smosh ended, and there’s no room for you in it anymore.”

He turns around and stomps down the porch steps, and Ian somehow knows with crystal clarity that this is it for this universe; that this version of Ian will never see Anthony again; that he will settle for marrying Jake and that he will spend the unforeseen future lying awake at night thinking about a small dark-haired child that will grow up in L.A. with two vegan parents, several pet cats, and his father’s signature high-pitched laugh.

Ian doesn’t want to be here anymore—his chest aches with the pain of it all, and he doesn’t know why Destiny had subjected him to this terrible version of his life. He doesn’t want to live in a universe where he and Anthony aren’t on speaking terms; where he has to watch Anthony storm away from him and know that he will never get him back.

His fists are in his pockets and he is clenching the business card that Destiny had given him so tightly that he thinks he might have given himself a papercut, but he doesn’t care.

Up in the night sky of rural Oregon, the stars blanket the sky so thickly that it almost hurts his eyes to look up and see how small he truly is in the grand scheme of things. He is blinking back burning tears when he feels a hand on his shoulder that is cool and warm all at once.

“I’m sorry you had to do that, if it helps,” Destiny says, and her voice is a little softer than it had been before.

“It doesn’t really,” Ian says miserably. “But thanks.”

She appraises him for a long minute and then sighs. “This is the part of the job that I really don’t enjoy, but you had to see it. It will make you value the other outcome more.”

Ian swallows. “What will happen to this Ian?”

Destiny shrugs. “I think you already know—he’ll marry Jake and he’ll continue existing. He might not be happy, but maybe someday he’ll be content.”

“This Ian is shitty for leaving Anthony,” Ian says strongly. “I would never leave Anthony behind or give him an ultimatum.”

“Give this Ian a break,” Destiny says, nudging him gently with her shoulder. “He had a worse childhood than you did.”

“I want to go back to my own universe,” Ian says quietly.

“Ah, but you don’t know what the other universe holds in store for you. I promise you’ll like this one a lot more,” Destiny says with a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “I’m going to take you into the future in this one, just because I think it’ll emphasize the point even more if you see this universe some years down the road.”

“How far in the future?” Ian asks skeptically.

Destiny shrugs. “Probably about ten years. And just so you know, bowl cuts don’t age well. So I’d recommend you think about getting rid of yours when you return to your rightful universe. Just a word of advice.” And then she honest-to-god _grins_ at him and grabs him by the hand and then soft white light explodes in front of his eyes and they are spinning through space and time until the only thing he can see is the single star that he’d managed to fix his eyes on, burning his eyes and blurring his vision until the light becomes darkness and he knows no more.

* * *

 

He’s in a bed again, but this time, he’s not alone.

There is someone snoring lightly in his ear; a heavy arm flung comfortably over his waist. Ian opens his eyes and shifts slightly, startled, and the person in the bed with him moves even closer, grip on Ian’s body tightening subconsciously, even in sleep.

Ian's eyes slide shut as realization crashes over him, his throat tightening, because he _recognizes_ that arm and that snore. And there is a wedding band on Ian’s left ring finger and a matching silver band adorns the hand resting against Ian’s stomach and that means that in this universe, he and Anthony are—

“Papa?” A small voice jolts him out of his reverie.

Ian cracks one eyelid to see a small blond child standing on tiptoes and peering at him intently over the edge of the bed.

The boy is perhaps only about three years old, and he is dressed from head to toe in Pikachu pajamas and clutching a soft, tattered blue blanket.

“Ash,” a new voice hisses from the doorway. “Ash, I _told_ you that they won’t let us watch cartoons if you ask them before the clock says 8 on it. Daddy said so last night, remember?”

Ash is probably too young remember anything overnight or recognize numbers, but he nods, clearly not wanting to upset his older sister.

“Papa,” the boy whispers solemnly, leaning in very close to Ian’s face. “Will you make pancakes for Zelly and I?” The word ‘pancake’ comes out as ‘pantake’, and Ian has to fight to keep a smile from spreading across his face as he continues to feign sleep.

“Ash, don’t wake Papa up! He’ll be grumpy.” The girl tiptoes closer, clearly planning on dragging Ash away from the bed and out of the danger zone. Ian seizes his opportunity, pulling out of Anthony’s embrace and scooping the two children into his arms in one smooth motion.

It should be weird; interacting with these children that are technically _his_ but that he has never met before this moment. But it isn’t—instead, there is an overwhelming feeling of _rightness_ as they both shriek delightedly in his arms.

“You’ve awoken the Pancake Monster,” he growls in a silly tone of voice that makes them both giggle. “Now you’ll both pay!”

The girl, who is perhaps about six years old, considers him with intelligent dark eyes. “What will be our payment?” She asks seriously, and Ian can already tell that teenage years with her will be interesting.

“Well, I know you’ll both be upset, but…” he trails off, making an exaggerated face like he is disappointed and resigned. “The pancakes will have to have chocolate chips in them. I know you both hate it…”

“No, Papa, we _love_ chocolate chips!” Ash chirps earnestly.

“Shh…don’t tell him that!” The girl hisses at her brother.

Ian laughs and lets them down. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen before we wake your daddy up,” he says, feeling his chest expand curiously as he refers to Anthony as the father of his children.

Anthony, who appears to be semi-awake, grunts appreciatively before rolling over slightly and grabbing Ian’s pillow like it is a replacement for Ian himself. Ian takes a minute to study Anthony’s relaxed face—Destiny hadn’t lied when she’d said she’d stick him ten years or so in the future. He can see the beginnings of silver at Anthony’s temple, and the crinkly smile lines around his eyes are deeper. But the sight of him still makes Ian’s heart beat faster, and he feels an amount of giddiness in his stomach that would probably be most appropriate for a fourteen-year-old girl, not a thirty-six-year-old man.

“Papa, come _on_!” The girl commands him from the doorway. He obligingly follows the excited duo down the hallway of the house that they apparently live in. On the way to the kitchen he passes two bedroom doors—one Pokémon-themed and bearing Ash’s name in blue, and the other with a horse-themed calendar and the name ‘Zelda’ in purple.

Ian hears footsteps behind him and turns to see Anthony standing in the doorway to the master bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes and grinning.

“I couldn’t fall back asleep,” Anthony says, looking like a Greek god in his pajama pants and shirtless upper body.

“Oh god,” is Ian’s articulate response. “We seriously named our daughter ‘Zelda’? How did that _happen_?”

Anthony laughs, coming up behind Ian and wrapping his arms around Ian’s waist, and Ian has to stop himself from hyperventilating because he’s dreamed of this for _years._ “Back to this argument again? It’s been two years since the last time you brought it up, I think. It’s a bit too late to change it now, don’t you think?”

“You should have named me after Link,” Zelda herself says, poking her head back down the hallway. “Link does all the cool stuff anyway—Zelda just sits around waiting to be rescued. Totally lame.”

“Somebody’s been hanging around Aunt Mari a little bit too much, I think,” Anthony mumbles in Ian’s ear. “Zelly, will you go pull out a mixing bowl for the pancakes? Where’s your brother?”

Zelda’s brown braid disappears back into the kitchen for a few seconds. “Oh, Ash is in here eating chocolate chips. No, Ash—don’t wipe your mouth on the curtain—”

Anthony snorts and presses a kiss against Ian’s neck before releasing him. “I’ll handle the kids and start the coffee if you work on the pancakes?”

“Deal,” Ian says faintly, hardly able to believe that this is an actual version of his life. He feels like he’s been placed in his own personal little utopia or something, and he doesn’t know how the hell he’s going to return to his own universe and re-adjust to the paradigm he and Anthony currently have while knowing all along what things _could_ be like.

He decides not to worry about that for now, though, and he continues to float happily for the rest of the day—after whipping up a batch of pancakes, they go to the park for the morning, where Zelda has soccer practice and Ash plays on the swings, giggling each time Anthony pushes him and makes airplane noises.

After soccer practice, Ian and Anthony sit on a park bench in the shade together and watch the kids play in the sandbox.

“You all right, babe? You’ve been awfully quiet today. New book giving you trouble?” Anthony asks, gently nudging Ian’s side with his elbow.

“Yeah, I’m just stuck on some character development,” Ian replies vaguely. Huh. Maybe he should actually think about sitting down to write when he gets back to his own world, because it seems to be popping up as a common theme in his alternate lives.

“I’m sure it’ll come to you,” Anthony says confidently. “After all, that third Newberry Award is calling your name. You can’t let Zelda get more soccer trophies than you have author awards.”

It is the same thing the other Ian had talked about with Jake, but for some reason it means so much _more_ coming from Anthony; that they share in each other’s triumphs and talents together.

“I’m sure she’ll have more trophies than me by next month,” Ian laughs, watching as Zelda patiently teaches Ash to pack wet sand in a bucket.

“She’s pretty great, isn’t she?” Anthony asks, pride clear in his voice.

“They both are,” Ian says softly, meaning it with all his heart. He wants this future so badly that it _hurts._

“You still seem down,” Anthony remarks thoughtfully after a minute.

As always, he can’t hide anything from any version of Anthony. “No,” he says, trying to smile around the bittersweet lump in his throat. “I’ve just been thinking a lot. I’m so grateful that my life turned out this way.”

“Uh-oh…another one of your existential crises?” Anthony says, but he stretches and wraps an arm around Ian’s shoulders in a cheesy middle-school-date-at-the-movies move.

“Guess so,” Ian shrugs. _You have no clue, Anthony,_ he thinks. _I’m literally on the wrong plane of existence right now._ “I’m really happy I married you.”

Anthony laughs, his eyebrows drawing together curiously. “Glad to hear it. I guess it’s nice to be reminded sometimes, but what’s brought this on?”

Ian watches Anthony’s face carefully. “If you could go back and do it all over again, would you change anything?”

Anthony appears to think for a minute. “I want to say that we would have gotten together sooner, but maybe not. Maybe we needed Melanie and Kalel and all that time afterwards to figure out what we really wanted. If we had tried to get together when we were young and immature, maybe it wouldn’t have worked out.”

 _You have no clue how right you are,_ Ian thinks, remembering life in Oregon. Maybe this is the lesson that this universe is supposed to teach him.

“Pretty deep,” Ian says. “And you say I’m the one getting existential.”

“Shut up,” Anthony says, but there is unmistakable fondness in his voice.

* * *

 

After the park and lunch, there is a round of showers and baths for everyone in the house. Then the kids disappear to the backyard to play some more, and Ian sits on the couch pretending to write a book and blatantly watching Anthony edit Smosh videos instead. Apparently they still do Smosh, just on a much smaller scale: one sketch video every two weeks; the occasional appearance in a Smosh Games video.

After Anthony cooks dinner, the four of them build a fort in the den and watch a Disney movie—apparently the future has a _Cars 3,_ which is reason enough for Ian to like this universe. The kids both fall asleep midway through the movie, and he and Anthony carry them to bed before heading to their own bedroom.

“So, husband mine,” Anthony says, a clear note of suggestiveness in his voice. “You still feeling all that existential affection towards me?” He waggles his eyebrows absurdly, and Ian shouldn’t be turned on while simultaneously laughing, but he is, because Anthony affects him weirdly and he is beyond help where the idiot is concerned.

Still, he thinks as he appreciatively watches Anthony pull his t-shirt over his head, revealing a trim, tanned physique, he misses his own Anthony. _This_ Anthony doesn’t have the tiny scar under his left eyebrow that the Anthony from Ian’s rightful universe does—the scar from the time they’d attempted to go surfing together last year and Anthony had taken a hard fall and somehow gotten clipped on the eye by his board. He’d gone under and come up for air again a scary amount of time later, bleeding and choking, but he and Ian had later collapsed on the sand and laughed their way through the slight fear that the instance had wrought, because they were young and alive and that was all that really mattered in the end.

And as much as he would love to be seduced by Anthony—seriously, he’d like that more than anything — this isn’t _his_ Anthony. So he slips his hand into his pocket again, his fingers finding Destiny’s business card. He squeezes, hoping that Destiny will fade them both out of the scene instead of showing up to stay and talk like she had last time—otherwise she is about to get an eyeful of naked Anthony, if the predatory grin on Anthony’s face as he advances towards Ian is anything to go by.

Fortunately, the world blurs in front of his eyes and he finds himself in a non-descript room with Lady Destiny, who smirks knowingly at him.

“Are you sure you wanted me to interrupt you there?” She asks.

“Shut up,” Ian says, feeling his ears grow hot.

“So…what did you think of that one?” She asks, leaning back in her chair—it is a lounger like the one she’d sat on in the house in Oregon, but this one is pristine white, much more fitting with her color scheme. Ian is on a black couch, and the walls of the room are muted gray. He wonders where they are—suspended in between universes? Somewhere in the middle of space and time?

“I want it,” he says instantly, and he means it. He is sure that that last universe is not without its own sadnesses and losses; that there are probably dark, shadowy parts of life that he hadn’t glimpsed in one sunny day existing there. But he still means it. “I want that to be my future.”

Destiny laughs, looking pleased with herself. “Then my work here is done.”

“But…aren’t you going to give me advice? I don’t want to fuck this up,” Ian says quickly, his voice rising with anxiety.

“Again, it’s not my job to teach you a lesson or tell you what to do,” Destiny sighs. “I’m just here to show you two scenarios. Did you learn anything?”

“Yeah…” Ian says, trying to put his thoughts into words. “I learned that timing is important. That I have to wait until we’re both ready before we can try being together. That waiting was the right choice. That last version of Ian…he waited, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Destiny affirms. “When Anthony came to that Ian and announced that he was moving to L.A. to be with Kalel, he just said they’d make it work. And he bided his time and didn’t speak up until Kalel and Anthony broke up. And it worked out.”

“Hang on,” Ian says, hope burgeoning in his chest. “That’s exactly what I’m doing in _my_ universe…was that last one my future?”

Destiny laughs again, the sound of china tinkling. “I’m afraid nothing is ever as certain as all that. It _could_ be your future. But it’s all up to you now. It’s your choice where you go from here—I may be fate, but you still have free will.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Ian says nervously. “No pressure or anything.”

Destiny regards him, and he gets the feeling that he will never see her again after this. “You know,” she says conversationally. “Everyone has an infinite amount of universes attached to them. Every single person. Normally they’re all about different choices and forks in the road—if you took a different job offer, if your parents decided to move when you were younger, if you went to the prom with a different girl. Little things. Different things. But your universes, Ian Hecox…your universes all revolve around _him._ Every single one of them. Just think about that.”

And he does think about that as the gray room dissolves around him and fades into blackness. Then: a fervent wish for home, the steady but distant beeping of a heart rate monitor, and blinding light at the end of a dark tunnel.

* * *

 

Ian is in yet another bed when he returns to awareness for the third time, and this time, he instantly knows he is in the hospital. The air has a medicinal, starched quality about it, and of course, there are various machines beeping out information about his pulse and heart rate.

He also knows he is back in his rightful world because _this_ time, the expected pain in his head is very much present and very much real. He drags his eyelids open with a slight groan as bright light floods his painful eyes.

It takes a few minutes of valiant blinking before he is really able to keep his eyes open, and even then, the splitting pain in his head is considerable.

The first thing he sees when the light stops burning him is Anthony, slumped in a chair next to Ian’s hospital bed. His head is bobbing slightly in fitful sleep, and his palm rests on Ian’s blanket, as though he had been holding Ian’s hand before falling asleep, or at least thinking about it.

Ian knows he is fighting a losing battle against sleep; that it won’t be long before he is dragged back under.

“Anthony,” he tries to say. It really comes out as more of a groan, but it does the trick because Anthony jerks in his uncomfortable-looking chair and is instantly alert.

“Ian,” he gasps, as though he is a drowning man who just broke the surface of the sea after long moments of being submerged. “Ian, you’re awake!” He seems to shake himself, as though to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

Ian barely manages an answering smile before his leaden eyelids drift shut again. He dimly hears Anthony pressing the call button for the nurse.

“Your hair…it’s curly,” he mumbles with a grin.

“Yeah,” Anthony says reverently, and his voice sounds like a prayer. “Yeah, it is.”

* * *

 

Ian is about ten times more coherent the next time he’s awake, but this time, Anthony isn’t here.

“Ian!” Mari exclaims guiltily, quickly elbowing Joven, who is standing at the foot of Ian’s bed and shamelessly rifling through Ian’s various get-well cards and presents. He can see that they are particularly fixated on a chocolate box, and both of them quickly swallow whatever they are eating and feign nonchalance.

“Hey guys,” he says with a tired grin. “Can I have some chocolate too?”

“Might be against doctor’s orders,” Joven shrugs, but he looks glad to see Ian alive and conscious. “Glad you’ve finally decided to rejoin us, you lazy bastard.”

“How long was I out?” Ian surveys the room, looking at the various bouquets and balloons. He recalls dimly how Anthony’s hair had been unstyled when he’d been here; how he’d looked like he hadn’t slept for a few days.

“Four days,” Joven says grimly. “Nobody knew why—the doctors did a bunch of brain scans, and they said there was no reason for you to be in a coma; that you had a concussion from the paint can but that it shouldn’t be keeping you unconscious.”

“Oh,” Ian says. “Sorry?”

“It’s not your fault,” Mari says kindly. “Although you did scare the shit out of everybody. Asshole.”

“Well, I’ll certainly try to never do it again,” Ian says honestly.

“That’s probably good, for your sake and ours. And most of all for Anthony’s.” Joven exchanges a knowing look with Mari.

“Yeah, he was inconsolable. I’ve never seen him like that before,” Mari says, shaking her head in amazed recollection.

“Really?” Ian asks, desperately trying to sound casual. He’s not sure if it works, based on the way Mari smirks at him.

“Yeah, this is only the second time he’s gone home in the past four days. We finally told him he needed to shower and shave, or he’d scare you when you woke up again,” Joven explains. “But he’s been here the entire time otherwise.”

“He really was upset?” Ian asks again, knowing he sounds like a preteen with a crush but figuring he’s at least entitled to some repetitive questions, if he gets nothing else out of having this concussion.

And Mari—who had been the first one to hear Anthony’s panicked shout from the conference room; who had been the one to call 911, who had watched in awe as Anthony had held Ian’s bleeding head gently on his lap and kept quietly asking Ian to just wake up already—just smiles at Ian. “He ate hospital food for you,” she tells him softly, and really, that says it all.

* * *

 

Ian tries to find the courage to tell Anthony, he really does. But it’s harder than it looks, because he knows exactly what is at stake now. If he fucks this up, Oregon will be calling his name.

There is also the small fact of the matter that he will sound _insane_ if he tries to explain what he had experienced while he was unconscious.

When he was still in the hospital, Anthony had asked if he remembered anything from the experience. He had imagined trying to explain everything—“ _well, you see, I met Lady Destiny and she took me on a tour of some different universes”—_ but in the end, he’d figured that if he ever wanted to be let out of the hospital, these weren’t the kind of statements he wanted to be making.

It has officially been two weeks since the paint can incident, however, and Ian no longer has the excuse of a concussion to blame for his lack of action. He and Anthony still haven’t talked about the fight that they’d had immediately before Ian’s accident, but he thinks the whole ordeal had scared Anthony. Over the past few days, he has noticed Anthony sometimes staring at him with a curious, thoughtful look on his face.

He can just imagine Destiny regally frowning down upon him right now.

“I know, I know,” he mumbles to himself as he waits for his plane to Sacramento to finish taxiing and arrive at the gate. They’ve just touched down, and he’s due at the Smosh house in three hours for filming. “I’ll tell him.”

The woman sitting next to him eyes him dubiously and scoots her body as far away from him as she can manage without falling out of her seat.

Ian rolls his eyes and resumes his anxious mental gymnastics. Realistically, he knows it’s time to tell Anthony about his feelings, because it’s consuming his life and his every waking thought. They are both single, and they’re both a lot more mature than they used to be. It’s time.

That doesn’t make it easy, though, and he compulsively tries out different words and phrases to describe his feelings in his head as he rides to the Smosh house in an Uber. By the time he gets there, he is a nervous and sweaty wreck, and he almost turns around about five different times as he walks to the front door.

At the last second, he thinks about all he has to lose. What it would mean to live life without Anthony in it. What it would be like to have to fumble their way back to the safety of friendship if this fails. What it would be like if their relationship became so strained that Smosh no longer worked.

He wipes his sweaty palms on his back pockets, and somehow through the denim of his jeans, he feels the familiar outline of a business card in his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at the white rectangle in bewilderment—he’d checked his pockets after he’d gotten out of the hospital, on the sheer absurd chance that the whole thing with Destiny was somehow more than his subconscious entertaining him while he was in a coma, and he hadn’t found anything.

But now…with Lady Destiny’s business card in his hand, he thinks about all he stands to gain—the way it had felt to wake up with Anthony’s arm slung effortlessly across his waist, Ash’s shy smile, Zelda’s bright laugh, the way that they’d all fit perfectly together in their blanket fort in the den.

A sort of resolution creeps over him and he pushes the door to the Smosh house open, ready to meet fate head-on.

He finds Anthony in the kitchen, reading a book and eating strawberries.

“Hi,” he says softly.

Anthony looks up. “Hey,” he returns, and his smile is like sunlight; bright and open and there for Ian to bask in—always warm, but never burning. In that smile, Ian can see the echoes of the life that they will someday build together.

And suddenly, Ian is across the room and leaning down to kiss Anthony in greeting, as though it is the most natural thing in the world; as though he hasn’t waited three long years to do this. And Anthony tastes like summer and he can feel Anthony’s smile against his mouth and there are so many things that they need to talk about, but this,  _this_ is more important than words.

When Ian pulls away, Anthony calmly puts his book down and pushes his bowl of strawberries away.

“Took you long enough to do that,” he says, and his voice is a little breathless and dazed.

“I think I’m going to start writing children’s books,” Ian announces.

“Okay,” Anthony says, his eyes intent on Ian’s mouth. He looks like he really wants to start kissing again, which is fine by Ian. “That sounds like a good idea.”

And it is.


End file.
